


The Devil On Your Back

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All4One Big Bang 2014, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: all4onebigbang, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Sharing a Bed, Swordage, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2345060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos is asked to go undercover on a mission that stirs memories he would rather were left buried. But friendship proves a more powerful force than the demons lurking in his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back_  
>  \- ‘Lord of the Dance’ (Sydney B. Carter)

“No.”

Captain Treville looked up at Athos calmly, unperturbed by the show of refusal that he would have called insubordination in any other man. He had expected to encounter such a reaction, but his mind was already made up, and he was not going to be swayed.

“There must be someone else capable of performing this task.” Not usually one to respond to an order with even the slightest show of defiance, Athos nevertheless persisted in his attempt to convince his captain to reconsider, his countenance remaining impassive and betraying nothing of the emotion that Treville knew lay beneath. It was a quality Treville both admired and despaired of. 

“It’s not a request, Athos. You and I both know you are the most suitable man for the job.”

The only response Athos made was to press his lips together in the grim knowledge that he couldn’t argue with that appraisal.

“What’s more,” Treville continued, undeterred, “you are one of my best Musketeers, and it’s important we deal with this threat promptly and efficiently.” He knew that paying blandishments to this stoic soldier of his would achieve nothing, but Athos had a strong sense of duty that wouldn’t allow him to reject this order to provide his service to the king.

He wasn’t, however, going to acquiesce without making his feelings known, albeit with his typical taciturnity. “And if I refuse?”

Athos’s continued resistance conveyed just how much he wished to do just that, but Treville was certain that, had Athos harboured any real doubts about his ability to undertake the assignment being asked of him, he would have stated them implicitly.

“You will not refuse. The matter is not up for discussion.” Treville’s authoritative tone belied the unease in his own gut, and hid the impulse enjoining him to ask his lieutenant to share the tumultuous thoughts he knew were whirling behind those infuriatingly calm blue eyes.

“Very well.” Athos inclined his head in a nod of obedient assent, prepared to perform the duty he had sworn to undertake upon receiving his commission into the King’s Musketeers.

There was nothing more to be said, but Athos waited until Treville dismissed him with a wave of his hand before turning on his heel and striding to the door, his step betraying no hint of his discontent.

“Tell d’Artagnan I wish to speak with him,” was Treville’s final request, and Athos met his gaze briefly in acknowledgement as he pulled the door closed behind him.

With a weary sigh, Treville scrubbed a hand across his face, the scratch of stubble grazing his palm unheeded. If there had been any other way to foil this latest threat to the king’s reign, he would have gladly welcomed the proposal; as it was, he had no more suitable course of action. As captain of this regiment, he took it upon himself to know as much about his men as possible, and that was sometimes as much of a hindrance as a help.

But Athos was a trained, competent soldier and, despite his objections, understood the importance of the mission. He was the only man Treville trusted to execute it flawlessly.

Treville wouldn’t have asked it of him had it not been absolutely necessary. The one thing he could do was to ensure Athos did not have to endure it alone.

* * * *

The first gloomy shadows of dusk found Athos slumped in a lonely corner of a dingy tavern, a collection of empty bottles and assorted cups scattered haphazardly on the scarred tabletop before him.

It was by no means an uncommon sight, but one that struck deep in the hearts of Aramis and Porthos as they joined him, sitting one either side of the desolate figure. After leaving Treville’s office a short while ago, they had guessed where they were likely to find their friend. That they had been proven correct in their assumption brought neither of them any satisfaction.

Even though they hadn’t expressly said so, both Aramis and Porthos knew that had any other member of the regiment found themselves in Athos’s position, they would be looking forward as a break from their usual duties; the chance to spend a few days in the luxury afforded to a count would be an assignment to make them the envy of the entire garrison.

For Athos, however, it was to ask him to return to a past he had left behind. A past he had no desire to revisit.

The king, however, had pressed upon Treville the importance of catching the men responsible for the threats issued to a number of friends and acquaintances before they had the chance to make their move. Writing warning letters was one thing, progressing to the kidnap and ransom they threatened was quite another.

And the king, of course, had no intention of bowing to any of their demands.

Treville’s plan was to place one of his Musketeers in a position to uncover the identity of the conspirators, and the best way to do this was to have him take the place of one of the menaced noblemen in the hope contact would be made. In order that the subterfuge not be uncovered, Treville had chosen the man most likely to pass as le Comte de Fontane: Athos.

“No one will think any less of you if you insist you do not want to do this,” Aramis told his friend as he watched Athos reach for another bottle.

“It is not a question of what people think, but of what needs to be done.” There was an absence of emotion in Athos’s voice that was almost as painful to witness as the despondent resignation with which he fixed his gaze upon the liquid in the bottle as it wavered in his grip. Aramis and Porthos were equally as aware as Athos that Treville had made the best call of judgment in regard to who should play the part of the count, but they would argue that his choice was not the wisest, all things considered.

Aramis suspected the cardinal had had a hand in the formation of this plan – a hand that forever sought to undermine Treville and his regiment at every available opportunity. But to Treville’s credit, the captain had, with his typical foresight, ensured Athos would not be alone.

“We’ll be there with you,” Porthos told him, although the fact of their presence had never really been in question. His assertion, however, brought a frown to Athos’s brow.

“My desire to avoid confronting my past has seen me endanger your life once before. I would rather not find myself in such a position again, where my preoccupation leads me to forget what is more important.”

“Treville trusts you,” Aramis said. “And so do we.”

“Your belief in me is touching, if misplaced.” Athos’s gaze flickered from the wine to Aramis, bleak. “How can you trust me when I do not trust myself?”

Aramis shook his head to refute Athos’s sombre words; Athos was one of the most dependable, honourable men he knew, and nothing would shake him of that belief. Every man had his demons, but he was not defined by them.

“I trust you with my life,” he stated empathically. “We all do.”

Porthos nodded his agreement, and spoke before Athos had a chance to argue his own failings further. “Besides, this is different. You’ll be pretending to be someone else.”

Athos, it seemed, was not to be so easily persuaded.

Aramis threaded one hand into his hair and tugged – a gesture that spoke of his sense of impotent despair. He looked to Porthos and saw the grim expression already painted on his face grow even unhappier as he watched Athos raise the bottle to his lips once more. Sensing Aramis’s gaze upon him, Porthos met his eyes and they shared a look of helpless anguish. They both knew it was nigh on impossible to draw Athos from the depths of such profound melancholy.

To entreat Athos to stop would be a futile endeavour, but they would nevertheless remain at his side as he chased oblivion.

As he lowered the bottle, Athos made the mistake of glancing at the men flanking him. A small part of his mind retained enough clarity to recognize the loyalty of their steadfast presence and know that they would never judge him. Seeing just how wretched they looked, and knowing that he was the cause, brought a hot flush of shame to his cheeks. He had never wanted his friends to be affected by his own moods, but it seemed they were too intrinsically, intimately connected for one to isolate himself from the others.

Dropping the bottle onto the table, Athos shoved it away with an angry swipe of his wrist. Aramis and Porthos gaped at him with undisguised surprise, wondering at this voluntary cessation of his drinking while the bottle was still only half empty.

More determined than ever to fight the need to pick the wine back up, Athos curled his hands into fists and pushed himself up from his seat. The sudden movement had him swaying as his body tried to adjust to this new upright position, and both Aramis and Porthos hurried to rise and reached out to steady their friend.

A sharp glance from over-bright blue eyes, however, had them instantly withdrawing their hands. Athos set his jaw and swallowed hard, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass before he turned and made his way to the door, his now steady gait belying the volume of wine he had consumed.

Allowing Athos the dignity of walking unaided, Porthos and Aramis followed close behind him as he navigated the dark, grimy streets as one accustomed to finding his way home in such an inebriated state. It was only as they reached the steps that led up to Athos’s rooms that his step faltered, the toe of his boot catching the wood and causing him to stumble. He might have fallen were it not for the quick reaction of Porthos who grasped his elbow in a strong grip and held him until he regained his balance. Permitting himself to finally accept the assistance, Athos allowed Porthos to guide him up the stairs.

Porthos only relinquished his hold on Athos once he had escorted him all the way to his bed. Once released, Athos rolled to his side, turning away from the other men.

“Leave me,” he rasped, voice muffled as he pressed his face into the pillow in a futile attempt to hide his contrition.

“No.” Porthos’s adamant refusal came as he stationed himself on a stool beside the bed.

Aramis perched on the edge of the mattress and placed a hand upon Athos’s shoulder. “We are going nowhere, my friend.”

Athos wanted to shake off the hand, to twist away from the tender care he was so undeserving of, but the warmth of Aramis’s touch was already spreading through him, resistant to all attempts to refuse its comfort.

The silent promise in that simple contact was what calmed the roiling emotions in Athos’s mind and lulled him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Athos stirred at the sound of the knocking at his door. Lifting his head, he blinked to clear the water from his eyes and gave an involuntary shiver as more drops were shaken loose from his hair to run in icy rivulets down his neck. Dressed only in braies and undershirt, there was nothing to keep the cool air from raising goosebumps on his flesh.

With his forearm, he wiped the worst of the water from his face as he rose from his knees to perch on the edge of the bed and called for his visitor to enter even as he wished to send them away and continue in his troubled solitude.

Athos looked up to find d’Artagnan in his doorway, arms laden with a number of carefully wrapped packages – the result of the errands Treville had sent him on following their meeting the previous afternoon. It wasn’t the parcels, however, that drew a puzzled frown across Athos’s brow, but d’Artagnan’s appearance; he was dressed not in the uniform of a Musketeer, but the smart but plain livery of a nobleman’s servant.

D’Artagnan caught Athos’s scrutinizing stare as he deposited his burden on a low table. “I am to be your valet,” he announced, answering Athos’s questioning look with a grin that faltered a little when he took in Athos’s dripping hair and drenched shirt, the bucket sat in a spreading puddle of water at his feet. He made the wise decision not to ask about that.

“I will not require a valet.”

“A count must have a valet,” d’Artagnan reasoned, and Athos had to agree he had a valid point. He wanted to argue that he would only be playing the role of a count and therefore didn’t have the same requirements, but then he remembered that it was the perception of others that was important, and it would seem strange if he was without a valet.

But it wasn’t the idea of having a valet that he opposed, so much as the thought of having one of his friends taking the position. It would suggest an inequality that no longer existed in any way that really mattered, and he couldn’t bear to even pretend otherwise.

“Then I shall have Fontane’s own man.”

“He is staying with the count. Besides, it was the captain’s idea, to allow one of us to keep close to you.”

Athos couldn’t fault Treville’s logic, nor his wisdom; the man hadn’t been made captain of the Musketeers for naught. Athos had been so intent on keeping his friends at arm’s length and thus out of harm’s way that he hadn’t considered the sagacity of having another set of watchful eyes close by, ones that weren’t going to be distracted by the requirement of keeping up an act.

His nod of acquiescence, when he finally gave it, was grudging but philosophical. “I will not expect anything of you beyond the scope of your usual duties.”

D’Artagnan flashed a buoyant grin. “That’s a relief. I don’t think I’d make a very good valet.”

An ephemeral smile ghosted across Athos’s face, only to vanish when he began to unwrap the parcels d’Artagnan had brought. Watching Athos’s fingers play lightly over the folds of revealed material, d’Artagnan could almost have believed his mesmerized demeanour was evidence of his appreciation for the fine garments, but a glance at his face told otherwise; there was a grim desolation in his eyes that struck at the young man’s heart.

All d’Artagnan knew of Athos’s past was the horrors it had left imprinted on the man, and how they had continued to plague him despite his attempts to shake them loose.

“You’re afraid she’ll still haunt you, even in somebody else’s house.” D’Artagnan spoke softly, as if afraid to stir further memories. “She’s gone, Athos. She can’t hurt you – anyone – any more.”

“She may be gone, but it is not so easy to banish one’s memories.”

D’Artagnan considered the array of bottles scattered about the otherwise Spartan room with the shrewd perception that only failed him when he allowed his passion to prevail over his prudence. None had been touched that morning, but d’Artagnan was not to know that. “Does the wine help?”

Athos raised his gaze to meet d’Artagnan’s, and he contemplated his young friend in solemn silence for the space of several heartbeats. D’Artagnan began to think he wasn’t going to reply, which would have been an answer in itself, and was about to apologise for his impudence when Athos gave him a melancholic grimace.

“Only for a short time.”

D’Artagnan nodded, his affection for the man he had come so close to killing and ended up forming an unshakeable friendship with written large in his dark eyes; a friendship Athos was now nothing but thankful for.

Having no words to adequately express the emotion in his breast, Athos instead smiled, a uncommon gesture from the typically phlegmatic man, but it was the very nature of that rarity that gave d’Artagnan no problem interpreting its meaning.

Athos picked up the shirt that lay on top of the pile of clothing. “I should get dressed.”

* * * *

Aramis and Porthos had left Athos before dawn so as to present themselves for parade and receive the orders they already knew Treville would be giving them. They were to be assigned to the guard detail at the palace during the occasion of the latest ball announced by King Louis, and while this would normally prompt complaints of the profound boredom awaiting them, this time the two Musketeers were all too happy to perform this duty.

Athos had still been asleep when they had silently let themselves out of his apartment, but it had become the relaxed, untroubled sleep of a man who had found some kind of peace within himself, brought about by the presence of those who loved him unquestioningly. Knowing d’Artagnan was to meet him in the morning, they felt able to let him sleep off the rest of the wine alone.

Now they were awaiting his arrival.

News of the ball had been spread far and wide amongst the nobility of Paris and a large attendance was expected. It seemed it was a celebration in honour of the queen, although Louis didn’t really need a reason for his latest frivolous event; it was a king’s prerogative to do whatever he wanted. It wasn’t for them to question, but Treville saw it as the perfect opportunity to allow ‘le Comte de Fontane’ to mingle amongst the royals and his fellow noblemen and, hopefully, attract the attention of those they were seeking.

They only had to hope that the men behind this intrigue were not personally acquainted with the real count, or their ruse would be all for naught.

Sent ahead to the palace, ostensibly to await the arrival of the king and queen, they were under instruction to keep watch for any suspicious activity. Treville was certain that the person responsible for the letters must have connections to the king’s inner circle, even if he was not actually a part of it, and would be using this ball as a chance to furtively observe their targets.

There were crowds of people lining the streets, all striving to get a glimpse of the queen. It was difficult to tell if anyone in particular stood out, such was the diversity of the throng, but Aramis and Porthos were keeping just as close an eye on the arriving guests, expecting to see Athos at any moment.

It was d’Artagnan they spotted first, stepping from a splendid equipage drawn by two majestic black horses. The statement of implied wealth was clear for all to see, and more than a few heads turned to watch as the occupant of the carriage disembarked.

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” Aramis breathed as an almost unrecognizable Athos left his transport in the care of d’Artagnan and made his way to the entrance.

“Yeah,” Porthos eloquently agreed, his gaze fixed upon their disguised friend as he approached. Athos was dressed in a fashion befitting a count; his boots were polished and bore no trace of any scuffs or scratches; his doublet – perfectly tailored – was of a deep midnight blue, with the finely detailed lace of his shirt peeking out around his neck. Everything looked to be – and doubtless was – made of fabrics of the highest quality, and, atop his head sat a hat bearing a magnificent plume that added to the air of easy elegance and completed the transformation from soldier to nobleman.

Athos himself was suitably groomed, his beard neatly trimmed and no sign of the grime of the garrison. He appeared every inch the wealthy count he was portraying; the sole indication that he was anything else would only present itself if one were to look closely at hands that bore the telltale callouses of a swordsman and scars of a soldier.

It was impossible for Aramis and Porthos to pretend they were doing anything other than staring at this guest of the king, but everyone else seemed to be doing the same. Athos gave no indication of objecting to the attention. He didn’t, however, deign to offer any kind of greeting to anyone, ostensibly considering it beneath himself to do so. He made no acknowledgement even of his friends, maintaining his dignified, vain bearing as he swept past and into the palace.

It was all a part of the act, but so unlike the honourable man they knew that Porthos and Aramis shared a look of stunned astonishment.

Once the succession of arriving carriages had dwindled to a stop, the crowd began to disperse. Under the guise of performing a routine patrol around the area, Aramis and Porthos took note of the faces of those who continued to linger, but no one did anything to draw suspicion to themself as a potential kidnapper. Unfortunately, this could be an indication that the conspirators were too well organized and their scheme too well planned to make identifying them a simple exercise of spotting the odd man out.

After completing their circuit, the two Musketeers ventured inside through a service entrance guarded by more of Treville’s men. Although it was a little irregular, the captain had granted them permission to scout inside the building too, so long as their presence remained unobtrusive. They made their way silently up onto a mezzanine overlooking the grand ballroom from where they could observe the gathering below unseen.

They quickly spotted Athos amongst the crowd, not even his disguise concealing the man from those who knew him so well. There were plenty more eyes fixed upon him; Athos had gained the attention he had been seeking and seemed to always have a number of others clustered around him. One reason for Treville’s choice of le Comte de Fontane as their cover was the man’s aversion to attending too many of these functions; while the royal family and those closely involved were in on the scheme, it was less likely the deception would be noticed by an acquaintance of the true count amidst the guests who were unaware of the plan due to his relative obscurity.

But if anybody was suspicious, it didn’t show as Athos mingled as someone who belonged in this setting, greeting and exchanging small talk with the men and flirting light-heartedly with the ladies. He even accepted the invitation of one bold woman to dance, and both Aramis and Porthos watched with undisguised fascination as Athos moved gracefully around the dancefloor in a manner reminiscent of the fluid poise with which he wielded a sword.

It shouldn’t, perhaps, have been surprising considering the man’s background, but his friends were nevertheless captivated by the way he so naturally adapted to his surroundings. They were the ones best placed, however, to perceive that Athos was not wholly comfortable. Usually so assured, his discomfort was apparent in the way he held himself apart from the largest groups of people, and every so often lowered the brim of his hat to afford himself a moment of privacy. The most remarkable observation, quickly noted by the two watching men, was how Athos refused every offer of wine, forgoing any alcoholic drink.

This all went unobserved by his fellow guests, distracted as they were by the celebration, but Aramis and Porthos determined to watch him all the more closely.

That no one else was paying particular or undue attention to any one of the men who had received one of the threatening letters was both encouraging and dispiriting. It gave them nothing to investigate and no leads as to who might be behind the plot. Hopefully this was not a sign that Treville’s plan was destined to fail.

After several hours of even just watching the dancing, Aramis and Porthos were beginning to grow exhausted and were happy to see the occasion begin to draw to a close. Guests slowly started bidding their farewells and leaving, and the Musketeers hurried back out of the palace. They were to follow Athos and d’Artagnan back to Fontane’s home, where they would spend a few nights while the count visited family in Rouen, in the hope of seeing something more of the men threatening him while he was safely absent.

After collecting their mounts, they waited as inconspicuously as possible for Athos to emerge and be collected by d’Artagnan and the carriage. Following at a distance that would not appear irregular to any observer, they followed the route to le Château de Fontane as the sun began its descent towards the horizon.

There was no ambush; the journey was as uneventful as any other, and after an hour’s ride the imposing pile came into site. The château itself was a huge, spectacular statement of wealth, nestled between perfectly manicured lawns and surrounded by a thick, lush forest. Beyond the buildings, glinting sunlight from the surface of smooth water marked the location of a lake.

It all appeared wonderfully idyllic, and Porthos imagined he should have felt envious of the man who it all belonged to, having grown up on the impoverished streets of the Court of Miracles. Instead, while still undeniably impressed, he couldn’t imagine living in such a place. He said as much to Aramis.

“I expect it’s different when it belongs to you,” Aramis suggested.

“Maybe,” Porthos conceded, but he thought that it was the implied solitude he was most averse to; no longer living in close quarters with those he cared about.

Mentally shaking free from those gloomy thoughts, for there was no reason to dwell on something that was unlikely to ever happen, Porthos followed Aramis to the house in search of Athos and d’Artagnan.


	3. Chapter 3

The Musketeers were called to dinner by the maid. The young girl, whose name Aramis had somehow already discovered to be Alaïs, showed them through to the château’s dining room.

Athos frowned at the extent of the spread laid out for them. Doubtless, the servants had been told to perform their duties as normal, but even four Musketeers had no need for so much food. Athos turned to the girl still hovering nervously beside the door.

“My friends and I shall dine, and when we are finished, you will take what is left and share it amongst the household.”

The girl blinked at the unexpected command, her gaze lowered shyly to her feet as she wondered whether she was allowed to accept such an offer.

“Yes?” Athos prompted when she showed no sign of reaching a decision.

Knowing it would be wrong to refuse the kindness when it was delivered in the form of an order, she quickly nodded. “Yes, Monsieur…” She faltered, unsure as to how to address the gentleman who was currently her master.

“Athos.” That was the only appellation he wanted.

“Monsieur Athos, thank you.” A light blush colouring her cheeks, Alaïs gave a graceful curtsey and scurried from the room.

“I very much doubt there will be much left once Porthos has eaten his fill,” Aramis predicted with the certainty of someone who had shared many meals with his fellow Musketeer as Athos joined them at the table, sinking wearily into his seat.

“Hey!” Porthos growled, glowering at Aramis and curling a protective arm around his already laden plate. “I’m a big man, I need my sustenance.”

“Well, that’s certainly true,” Aramis conceded, flashing his teeth in a playful grin that received a waggle of dark eyebrows in response.

“As long as he leaves some for the rest of us.” D’Artagnan was busy selecting a variety of morsels for himself as he spoke, only to be interrupted by a clap on the shoulder and its accompanying hearty laugh.

“A man after my own heart!” Porthos proclaimed, and then both men were too preoccupied by their meal to pay any further heed to Aramis’s teasing. Athos had watched the exchange in silence, but the easy banter shared by his friends served to lift a little of the weight that had sat heavily in his chest ever since he had woken that morning.

Aramis uncorked the bottle of wine nestled amongst the serving trays and began pouring a measure into each glass, but when he reached Athos’s his hand was stayed by the touch of cool fingers.

“None for me, thank you.”

Aramis blinked, astonishment sweeping across his features – an expression mirrored perfectly in the raised eyebrows of Porthos. It was the weight of d’Artagnan’s gaze, however, that Athos felt most keenly, and he knew precisely the images the young man was seeing in his mind’s eye for they were only too vivid in his own mind, too. Not even the volume of alcohol he had consumed that day they had all sought refuge at La Fère could erase those memories: ghosts of the past made manifest amidst the choking smoke and consuming flames as the house he had once called a home became a pyre.

“Are you sure?” Aramis was searching his face for confirmation. Or perhaps he thought Athos had gone mad. Either way, Athos felt a spark of shame and self-reproach as he realised that Aramis had not spoken one word to chastise him for his weakness, not the previous night and not here. Yet Athos could not pardon himself, nor shake the fear that if he tasted even just a little he would soon find himself chasing the black edge of oblivion until he tumbled headlong into its clutches.

“Yes. I would rather retain a clear head whilst we are here.”

Aramis looked as if he wanted to argue, but after a moment’s deliberation he chose to respect Athos’s choice.

Athos looked at each of his friends in turn, wishing he could erase the concern in their eyes but lacking the means to do so. Instead, with a smile that didn’t quite reach the level of reassurance he had been aiming for, he gestured at the table and bade them eat. His own stomach, however, rebelled against the thought of accepting food and he only picked at his own plate, aware of the worried glances Aramis sent him and doing his best to allay whatever fears he was harbouring.

When they had eaten their fill, the four Musketeers moved into the salon. A fire was blazing in the hearth, lending the room a homely feel that could almost have been welcoming were it not so reminiscent of a past rather forgotten.

Large windows framed a rural panorama of verdant fields and the rich forest that bordered the château and its grounds, quiet and serene beneath a sky painted fiery orange by the setting sun.

D’Artagnan stood before the windows for a while, looking out as the steadily encroaching twilight spread its shadowy cloak over the land, the others ignoring the view in favour of installing themselves before the crackling fire, the warmth from its flames quickly settling over them in a snug embrace.

Abandoning his silent contemplation, d’Artagnan moved from the windows to wander instead around the room, studying the myriad ornaments and curios that decorated the salon.

“Don’t break anything, will ya?”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at Porthos’s teasing warning but considered it unworthy of any other response. “I can’t imagine living somewhere like this,” he said instead, his gaze fixed upon a set of large antlers jutting proudly from the wall. “It seems too…”

“Big,” Porthos supplied, recognizing his own thoughts echoed in d’Artagnan’s words. “Empty.”

“Yeah.” An instant after he had spoken, d’Artagnan darted a glance at Athos, afraid he may have inadvertently cause offence. This was, after all, exactly the sort of place Athos had grown up in, inherited; he hadn’t intended any slur on his friend or his noble heritage.

Athos took no offence, quietly nodding agreement instead, his eyes focused somewhere in the past. “It is not so intolerable if one has a family with which to fill its rooms.”

D’Artagnan found himself at a loss as to how to respond to that. He only wished he had held his tongue rather than speaking without thought, as usual.

Noticing his discomfort, Athos offered him a rueful smile. “I think you would find living here rather dull. There are not nearly enough opportunities for you to get yourself into trouble.”

“Oh, he’d manage to find some,” Porthos said confidently. “Or else he’d create them.” The indignant pout his comment summoned to d’Artagnan’s face had Porthos bellowing a laugh.

Grateful that the attention had been drawn away from him, Athos let his gaze lose itself within the dancing flames of the fire, trying to ignore the constriction in his chest as memories rose unbidden; echoing laughter, happy smiles, summer evenings, the flash of pale blue petals nestled amongst dark hair…

He only realised he had reached for her locket when his fingers closed on empty air, his fist clasped, barren, at his breast.

Beside him, Aramis saw the futile gesture and grasped his hand, drawing it away from its useless place at Athos’s chest and pressing it securely between his own. If he noticed the tremor that Athos couldn’t seem to conquer, he only strengthened his grip.

Athos met Aramis’s gaze. It was as open as ever, but behind the spirited spark that usually danced in his eyes lurked an emptiness, a void where once had dwelt the promise of something more – a life that had been cruelly torn away before it had had the chance to blossom.

Athos forcefully blinked away the images that swirled in his mind, curled his fingers tightly around the hand in his and felt Aramis’s responding squeeze, finding in each other that which they had lost in the past – family, friendship, love – and sharing it with the unconditional devotion that had evolved between them over the years.

Without a word, Porthos moved to sit at Athos’s other side, his solid frame a staunch, reassuring presence.

* * * *

The silver light of the moon had, over the course of the past hour, been slowly extinguished by a battalion of dark clouds that now loomed heavily outside the window of the bedroom.

Sleep, however, remained elusive. Not so the fragments of memory that had crept inexorably back to lurk at the edges of Athos’s mind, growing ever more substantial as the shadows deepened, threatening to coalesce into tangible phantoms.

Athos tried closing his eyes, hoping to trap the spectres outside, but they refused to be thwarted by such an insubstantial barrier, finding life in his mind’s eye instead, just as vivid, just as real.

Then the rain began to fall, pattering against the windowpane and resonating somewhere deep inside his chest.

A soft creak startled Athos instantly back to alertness, but his momentary alarm swiftly vanished as he recognized the figure silhouetted in the doorway.

“Porthos?”

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” Porthos spoke softly, as if afraid of disturbing the slumber of the château itself.

“No, I was not asleep.” He ventured no further disclosure, knowing he could not competently explain the full reason for his inability to sleep.

Porthos, reacting not to Athos’s words but to what remained unspoken, stepped into the room and pushed the door closed behind him. Moments later, the mattress dipped as Porthos sat on its edge. Athos couldn’t clearly make out his features in the poor light, but his thoughtful silence spoke of his disquietude.

“What’s the matter?” Athos asked, hoping it wasn’t his earlier agitation that had prompted Porthos to feel the need to check on him, and yet at the same time he was touched by the consideration.

Porthos hitched a shoulder in a shrug that Athos felt rather than saw. “I can’t sleep either,” he admitted. “It’s too quiet.”

What might have seemed a strange statement struck Athos as perfectly reasonable coming from Porthos, a man accustomed to the company of others; whether it be the noisy restlessness of the Court of Miracles, or the bustle of the garrison, he found a comfort in the sounds of life that was absent in the silent solitude of the château at night.

There was solace in the knowledge that Athos was not alone in feeling discomfited by the unbearably quiet building – a comfort that brought with it relief when he realised the shadows of the room no longer concealed the ghosts of the past.

Athos could feel Porthos’s scrutiny, but knew that he would not ask him to voice his thoughts; Porthos needed no explicit sign to know when something ailed one of his friends, but he would remain steadfastly by their side whether they felt inclined to confide or not.

Silently, Athos slid a few inches to one side and, without a moment of hesitation, Porthos stretched out alongside him in the space he had created.

Just as the first hazy hint of sleep began to tug at his mind, Athos felt the solid weight of an arm slip around his waist in a secure, protective embrace.

* * * *

A few hours later, Porthos slipped out of the bed to relieve Aramis of his watch. He moved gently and made no sound so as not to disturb Athos, but the loss of Porthos’s warm, solid presence stirred the slumbering man, the whisper of a cool breeze raising goosebumps on his arms.

But no sooner had Athos tugged the counterpane up over his chin, he heard light footsteps enter the room. Even his sleep-hazy mind recognised the step as belonging to Aramis, and it was without surprise that he felt, a minute later, Aramis slide into the space vacated by Porthos.

Had he been more alert, Athos might have argued the necessity of minding him so closely, as one would an unsettled child. But that wave of pride soon ebbed away as the reassuring comfort of Aramis’s proximity washed over him, lulling him back down into sleep.

The actions of his two closest friends were not born of a sense of obligation, or the perceived need to keep watch over him, but of a desire to demonstrate to him their unwavering loyalty and love. The implicit sentiment enveloped him like a warm blanket and swelled within his breast; it might have been overwhelming were it not for the still darkness of the night that allowed him to silently accept its existence.

A short time later, Athos’s hand, either by accident or, perhaps, unconscious design, found Aramis’s shoulder and curled lightly against it, finding an anchor in that steadfast devotion and resolute presence.


	4. Chapter 4

The dawn heralded an end to the rain, the bright rays of the low sun dispelling the last of the night’s false illusions.

The château itself, however, still loured over the heads of all within like an oppressive mantle.

Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan all sat around a table eating a breakfast consisting of a selection of fruits and pastries that Aramis had charmed from Alaïs, but the good cheer with which they usually fell upon such a treat was absent; Aramis and Porthos were both preoccupied with keeping a watchful eye on Athos, while d’Artagnan hadn’t failed to pick up on the gloomy mood and was silently but keenly observing each of his friends. He was acutely aware of what troubled Athos but he didn’t want to dredge up any more raw memories so wisely opted to remain silent.

Stood at the window, Athos was looking out over the lawn. Last night’s rain lingered as dew amongst the grass, the drops catching the early light of the rising sun and glistening like a scattering of diamonds. The sight did little to lift his spirits.

Feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes upon his back, Athos turned back to the room. The other men didn’t mask their concerned expressions, although d’Artagnan glanced away, not wanting to intrude if Athos did not wish him to.

The very presence of his three closest friends stirred a clarity within Athos, and in that moment of sharp lucidity he realised the suffocating darkness that had threatened to engulf him during the night had vanished, swept away by quiet affection and unwavering love. All he needed to do was stop clinging to the last tendrils that nudged at his mind and allow what was in his heart to finally release him.

Lacking the words to adequately express that revelation, he instead smiled. That gesture alone was enough to allay the worst of the fears possessed by the others; the tension left Porthos’s shoulders and Aramis’s brow, and d’Artagnan visibly relaxed.

Unwilling to risk allowing those dark demons to take hold of him again, Athos felt it prudent to escape the confines of the house for a while – just for an hour or so to shake off its looming presence – and so announced his intention to take a walk.

Aramis and Porthos immediately rose from the table, clearly meaning to join him, but Athos waved them back down.

“There is no need for you all to accompany me. Stay and enjoy the meal.”

“There is every need,” Aramis argued. “The Comte’s life has been threatened and, to all intents and purposes, you are that man.”

“And we’re here to protect him. That is, _you_ ,” Porthos added.

“True,” Athos conceded, “but it will only appear odd for Fontane to be taking a walk in his own grounds flanked by two Musketeers.”

“Not that odd,” Aramis countered. “He’s received threats, so it stands to reason he would be taking precautions.”

“Perhaps. But it is hardly conducive to luring these villains into making their move.”

“How about _I_ go with you?” D’Artagnan’s voice cut into the debate and all eyes turned to him. He gave his friends a small, modest shrug. “It won’t look strange if your valet accompanies you on a walk, will it?” he reasoned.

Athos considered the logic behind that for a moment and decided that the thought of having the young Gascon join him was not an unpleasant one.

“Very well.”

D’Artagnan flashed a grin and scrambled to his feet.

* * * *

“I do wish you wouldn’t walk behind me like that.”

The rain had left in its wake a sharp, fresh crispness and Athos drew in deep lungfuls of the cleansing air as they wound their way along a rough path. On their right, the water of the lake sparkled, reflecting the sun from its still surface; to their left, trees crowded into dense woodland. It all combined to bring a calm to Athos’s mind, marred only by the zeal with which d’Artagnan insisted upon adhering to his assumed role.

“I’m trying to look like a valet. We are meant to be making this believable.”

“All the same, don’t.”

D’Artagnan, to his credit, increased his pace to draw level with Athos, and they walked together in companionable silence for a few minutes before Athos spoke again, his voice heavy with its usual earnest sincerity.

“You are both my equal and my friend, d’Artagnan. I could never consider you anything less.”

“We are only play-acting,” d’Artagnan assured him. “But I am honoured you regard me so highly.”

“You have proven yourself worthy of your place within the ranks of the Musketeers many times and, more importantly, shown yourself to be a true and loyal friend.”

“It’s only right that I repay your kindness.” There was the trace of a blush on d’Artagnan’s cheeks. “You are a good man.”

“You are already a better man than I could ever hope to be.”

“That’s not true—”

Any further argument upon this point d’Artagnan was about to venture was cut short as Athos abruptly stopped, standing stock still, frozen to the spot. D’Artagnan turned to look at him, confusion written across his face, wondering for a moment if he had been the cause of this strange halt. He was about to ask what was wrong when Athos brought a finger to his lips, motioning for him to remain silent.

D’Artagnan realised Athos was listening for something, and was instantly alert. Seconds later he heard it for himself: the unmistakable sound of movement through undergrowth. A rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig.

They were not alone.

About to reach for his sword, d’Artagnan’s hand paused when Athos gave a small shake of his head. D’Artagnan frowned, but did as instructed, trusting Athos’s instincts despite the signs of danger.

The sound of footfalls became clearer as they approached, then a figure materialized from between the trees; a tall, swarthy man with a shock of black hair and a crooked nose stepped onto the path ahead, an unfriendly smile of greeting curling his lips.

“Who are you?” Athos demanded in the haughty, indignant tone of one who considered himself rightfully above all others. “What are you doing here?”

D’Artagnan almost raised an eyebrow at the way Athos adapted his aristocratic diction into something arrogant and imperious, but the threat this interloper posed kept him from reacting in any way other than staring in startled surprise.

“I am here to reclaim what is rightfully mine,” was the enigmatic, and frankly mystifying response. The deep voice held an undeniable trace of nobility that spoke of a high-born background, but it was now rough with barely concealed menace.

“You have no right to anything here,” Athos replied smoothly. “This is my land and you will remove yourself from it immediately.”

For someone who had resisted playing the part of the Comte so strongly, d’Artagnan was quietly impressed with how well Athos performed his role. But he hadn’t really expected anything less from a man who always carried out his orders with utmost professionalism, even when they weren’t executed strictly in accordance with their instructions.

Nothing Athos said, however, had any effect on the man, nor had he expected it to. The small smile amidst the angles of the rugged face grew more malevolent as the stranger took a step forward, yellow teeth flashing in a warning.

“That won’t be happening.”

As he spoke, three more men stepped into view, two flanking the Musketeers and one cutting off their retreat, each with a sword in their hand. Neither Athos nor d’Artagnan were surprised to discover this blackguard was not acting alone, and both men tensed in preparation of what was certain to come.

Sure enough, at a nod from their leader, the men closed in. A heartbeat later, Athos and d’Artagnan had drawn their swords and slipped into a fighting stance, back-to-back and ready to face their assailants.

The two men who engaged d’Artagnan seemed astonished to find themselves fighting a servant in possession of such impressive skill with a sword. Even so, there were still two of them against only one of d’Artagnan, and it took every ounce of the Musketeer’s natural talent and training to keep them at bay.

Athos’s opponents, one of whom was the black-haired mastermind himself, had also envisaged a much easier fight, one in which they would quickly subdue the count and spirit him away with little trouble. They hadn’t expected to be up against two of the king’s finest Musketeers, even if they remained unaware of the true identities of the men they had entered into battle with.

For several minutes, the previously tranquil environs of the forest were filled with the clashing of metal blades, steel meeting steel as blows were traded and parried in frenzied attack. Athos and d’Artagnan quickly established themselves the superior swordsmen and they might have succeeded in gaining the upper hand had not misfortune befallen d’Artagnan; his heel struck an exposed root and he stumbled, losing his footing on the muddy earth and crashing to the ground. His opponent was instantly upon him, the point of his sword pressing menacingly just beneath d’Artagnan’s Adam’s apple.

Seeing his predicament, Athos and his two assailants paused, coming to an uneasy standstill as options were reassessed. The advantage had now fallen squarely in the court of the kidnappers, and every man present knew it.

A sinister grin spread across the face of the man in charge of the small band of would-be abductors. Athos gazed steadily back at him, showing no outward sign of the icy dread that speared his gut; surely such men would think nothing of killing what they perceived to be a mere servant in order to achieve their goal. Before he had chance to utter the order, Athos lowered his sword.

“He is just a boy, acting out of loyalty to his master. Spare his life, and I will give myself up to you willingly.”

The man’s smile froze, cold eyes fixing Athos with a piercing stare. Athos didn’t blink; he was not going to risk d’Artagnan’s life needlessly. If the bastard was awaiting proof of his sincerity, Athos would offer it freely.

Athos heard the quiet, “No!” as d’Artagnan guessed what he was about to do, but he refused to look at his friend, resolute in his decision.

He tossed his sword away to the side, where it thudded to the leaf-strewn ground uselessly.

Immediately it left his hand, Athos was flanked by the two men not guarding d’Artagnan, and forced to his knees. His hands were yanked roughly behind him, and he put up no resistance as a thin, coarse rope was tied securely around his wrists.

“I’m sorry.” D’Artagnan petitioned Athos with a look of remorse Athos wanted to insist he need not feel; he couldn’t blame himself for what had been an accident. In place of words, Athos gave him a slight shake of his head before twisting to look up at the face of his captor.

“I kept my word. Let him go.”

A shadow of conflicted indecision flickered across the man’s features, and his thoughts were obviously shared by his comrades, for the one holding his sword to d’Artagnan’s throat spoke his reservations aloud. “He’ll raise the alarm.”

Athos tensed his muscles, ready to spring to d’Artagnan’s aid if the men didn’t uphold their side of the bargain. If he moved fast enough, he judged that he might just cover the distance in time to barge the man aside before he struck. If luck was on his side, which it currently did not seem to be.

His gaze remained fixed on the lead man, unwavering and with a fire that promised retaliation he was in no position to execute, but would nevertheless attempt. The eyes on his narrowed, a hand sketched a gesture toward the spread-eagled young man.

“Wound him.”

“No—” Athos’s cry of protest was cut short by an explosion in his head. The scene in front of him was flooded by a flare of bright white light, and then the world went black.


	5. Chapter 5

“Monsieur Aramis!”

The urgency with which his name rang through the high halls of the château had Aramis racing to the source of the commotion at speed, his boots skidding on the polished floors, Porthos on his heels.

The sight that greeted them in the large entrance hall was one that struck dread into their souls: a disheveled, sagging d’Artagnan was supported between the groom on one side, and Alaïs on the other, unable to bear his own weight but trying all the same.

At Aramis’s signal, the two servants gently lowered their charge to the floor and Aramis instantly knelt beside him, his hands finding the wound to his thigh and pressing against it to stem the flow of blood.

D’Artagnan hissed at the pain that shot through his leg, but valiantly kept his hold on consciousness. Grasping hold of Aramis’s arm with surprising strength, he managed to form one word through dry lips:

“Athos…”

It was only the need to focus on treating d’Artagnan’s wound that had kept Aramis from mentioning the noticeably absent Athos, but the distress and urgency in the young man’s tone deepened the fearful anxiety he was trying to control in order to concentrate.

Porthos had no such distraction, however. Crouching in front of d’Artagnan, he desperately searched the pale features for the answer to the question he almost dare not ask for fear of what the reply might be. But he had to know. “What happened? Where is he?”

The pain in d’Artagnan’s eyes was momentarily displaced by a mixture of apology and despair. He licked his lips before attempting to speak again. “We were…ambushed. They…have him.”

“Where?” Porthos demanded, trepidation lending the question a gruff edge he hadn’t intended to direct toward his wounded friend.

D’Artagnan understood, knew Porthos didn’t mean to sound abrupt and uncaring, for there was a knot of fear in his own stomach, perceptible even through the pain, that was made all the more vivid by the addition of his unshakeable sense of guilt.

“The west edge of the lake,” he croaked through gritted teeth.

Porthos rose to leave, but Aramis hesitated, caught between the need to tend to d’Artagnan and the desire to rush off in search of Athos. Speed was essential in both cases.

Sensing his dilemma, d’Artagnan squeezed Aramis’s arm to gain his attention. Aramis looked up into a face etched with worry.

“Go,” d’Artagnan insisted. “Find him.”

Still Aramis didn’t move. He became aware of a presence beside him as the maid knelt and his hands at d’Artagnan’s leg were gently replaced by her young but sure fingers.

“Go, Monsieur. We will take care of Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

Instantly reassured by the determination he saw in her eyes, Aramis gave Alaïs a weak but grateful smile. Taking d’Artagnan’s hand in his, his pressed it firmly before rising to his feet and following Porthos out the door at a run.

* * * *

A pounding in his skull welcomed Athos back to a consciousness that he would gladly have spurned had he not, in the next instant, remembered everything that had happened beside the lake. His first coherent thought was for d’Artagnan, and he tried to raise his head in search of the young Gascon. Even that small action sent a fresh spear of pain through his head.

Laying still once more, his senses slowly returned to him, sluggishly working their way past the insistent, throbbing ache until he was able to discern the rhythmic beat of a horse’s hooves and the rolling motion of the cart he had been bundled upon.

He had no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious, but a few snatched glimpses through the branches of the trees between which they were passing revealed the sun to be only midway between the horizon and its zenith. Encouraged by the knowledge that it was still not yet noon, Athos was nevertheless aware that with each minute that passed, each step further they travelled from the château, the chances of rescue diminished.

And, with d’Artagnan injured, it was possible Aramis and Porthos didn’t yet know anything of what had transpired.

To wait placidly would only lead Athos into the unknown; if they reached their destination, his chances of escape reduced dramatically. There could be any number of men – associates of his captors – awaiting his arrival, and their hideaway was undoubtedly remote and secure. Aramis and Porthos would be able to follow the tracks of the horse and cart in the muddy ground, but if it were to start raining again the evidence of their passage would be obliterated, in which case their head start might be just enough to evade a tail.

His friends would not let that foil their pursuit, but the delay could prove costly.

No, the best course of action would be for Athos to effect his escape while still on the road, thereby hopefully taking them by surprise and using this neutral ground to his advantage. His current state remained a problem, however; bound and unarmed, and only one man against four.

The odds may have been stacked against him, but Athos was not going to choose passive surrender. There may have once been a time when he would gladly have given himself up to whatever fate awaited him, but he knew now he had a reason to fight for his existence.

More importantly, he must return to d’Artagnan.

Resolve grew within him and he ever so slowly drew his knees up and braced his shoulder against the rough-hewn boards beneath him. Ignoring the protest of his head, he tensed, his eyes open a fraction and focused on the knees of the man sat closest to him. There was never going to be a perfect moment and to delay would grant him no advantages, so as soon as he next felt the cart rock as it passed over a patch of uneven ground, he sprang.

Twisting at the waist and pushing up with his knees, he threw himself bodily at his chosen victim.

Hindered by his bound arms and the awkward position, he couldn’t put as much force behind the attack as he would have liked, but the combination of surprise and speed worked in his favour; the man he barreled into lost his balance and tumbled backward over the low side of the cart.

Athos could do nothing but fall with him.

Hands grabbed at him and the horse brayed with fright as the cart was wrenched to one side, the sound cutting across the shouts of the band of kidnappers.

Falling, falling, and then a jarring jolt as they finally met the ground. Athos’s landing was cushioned by the body beneath him but, disorientated by his spinning head and the sudden impact, it took him several seconds to realise he was still moving, rolling down a grassy back, the smell of damp, loamy soil filling his nostrils. Pain shot across his shoulders and the tangled, sharp-edged fronds of the low vegetation tore at him at he tumbled through the undergrowth, stopping only as the ground levelled out.

Instinct alone got his feet beneath him and he was running even before he registered the sounds of pursuit, the image of d’Artagnan lying prone and helpless with the tip of a sword at his throat lending him a speed he might otherwise have struggled to find if it were only his own life in peril.

Unable to check his momentum, he crashed into a tree, the unyielding bark slamming into his shoulder, twisting him, tearing the breath from his lungs. He stumbled, but he didn’t stop. Branches snatched at him and gnarled roots threated to trip him, but he remained upright, his feet finding a safe route.

Somehow, over the crashing of running feet and the pounding of blood in his ears, Athos heard the distant thunder of hoofbeats and knew without any measure of doubt that the sound heralded the approach of his fellow Musketeers.

Changing direction, Athos angled back towards the path, struggling up the incline even as it tried its very best to sap the last of his remaining energy. That his friends were here meant they must have found d’Artagnan, and what kept him driving onwards was the need to discover if he was alive.

The footfalls behind him were growing louder, closer, but Athos didn’t once glance over his shoulder; his world had narrowed to the sound of the horses and the plateau of the trail that lay just ahead, at the top of the bank.

Just as he reached the clear but muddy ground of the pathway, fingers closed on his sleeve, yanking him backward. As he lost his balance, he twisted and struck out with his foot. A satisfying crunch as his boot connected with a knee and he was released, only to crash heavily to the rock-strewn ground.

The commotion drew the attention of the riders, arriving just in time to see the other men catch up with their quarry. All three baulked at the sight of the two Musketeers, but one, wielding a pistol, recovered himself quickly enough to take rapid aim at Aramis. In his haste his shot went wide of its mark. He had only enough time to bark a cry of fear as Aramis calmly levelled his arquebus and returned fire. A moment later, he was on the ground, one hand clutched to his shoulder.

As the dual reports cracked and echoed through the trees, Porthos vaulted from his horse, smoothly drawing his sword in the same movement. Immediately he hit the ground he placed himself between the fallen Athos and his assailant. Ignoring the anger that darkened the craggy features of the gang’s leader, Porthos snarled – the only warning he deigned to offer before he pounced.

The man, slowed by the kick he had received, only just pulled his own sword from its sheath in time to parry Porthos’s first attack. Using the incline of the bank to his advantage, Porthos drove his opponent backward, keeping him on the defensive and always moving away from Athos.

With his attention focused on retaining his footing on the uneven slope, the man presented no real problem for Porthos. Seeing an opening when a slip left him unbalanced, Porthos pressed his advantage and darted forward with a quick thrust before he had chance to recover. The blade met flesh, sinking in beneath the man’s ribs, and he stumbled again. This time his legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed to the ground.

Safe for the moment, Athos struggled to his knees, barely registering the mud soaking into his breeches. A wave of exhaustion swept over him, threatening to drag him back down to the depths of unconsciousness, but he refused to succumb to its pull. Straining against his bonds, he tried to work them loose so as to free himself to offer whatever assistance he could to his brothers, but the rope only dug more deeply, chafing the already raw skin of his wrists.

By the time Porthos returned to the higher ground, Aramis had dismounted and engaged the two remaining men in a three-way duel. One of his opponents – the man Athos could identify as being the one he had knocked from the cart – was hampered by an injury received in the fall, and his blows were easy enough to parry, lacking the strength of those of an unwounded man. This allowed Aramis to keep most of his attention on the other, but it was still a battle fought mostly through defence until Porthos appeared beside him and they together fell into an attack that assumed an almost natural rhythm honed by constant training and a bond that allowed them to communicate without the need for words.

Seeing their chances of triumphing in this particular fight rapidly diminishing, the two erstwhile kidnappers began to look as if retreat would be their better course of action. Unable to extricate themselves from the combined onslaught of the Musketeers, however, they were soon felled.

While Aramis quickly checked to ensure none of the band of conspirators were likely to rise again, Porthos went to Athos and knelt beside him, mindless of the mud. Drawing his main gauche, he sliced through the ropes. Athos gave a soft gasp of pain as his shoulders were released from their awkward position and blood rushed back to his arms.

Then Aramis was there, his assessing gaze sweeping over Athos in search of injuries, giving a grimace as he noticed the blood matted in Athos’s hair. Fingers probed gently at the area to judge the severity of the wound. Athos tried to brush off his concern and, mistaking his evasion for pain, Aramis pulled his hand away, his shrewd gaze growing more anxious.

Athos met his eyes in a vain attempt to prove he was in passable condition as he asked the question paramount in his mind.

“D’Artagnan?”

“He’s fine.” It was Porthos’s sure and reassuring baritone that answered him and Athos felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “Just a little hole in his leg.”

His fears dispelled, Athos finally relaxed, leaning into Porthos’s solid bulk at his back and his eyes flickered shut with relief.

“Let’s get back to the house,” Aramis said softly, recognizing Athos’s fatigue for what it was and wanting to get a better look at his head wound.

Athos opened his eyes and fixed Aramis with a look that was far less inscrutable than usual, holding an open plea. “I’d rather go home.”

Porthos grunted his approval of Athos’s preference, just as keen to bid farewell to this place as Athos was.

“We will,” Aramis promised. He gave Athos’s shoulder a brief squeeze of understanding and let his hand linger there a little longer. “Just as soon as we’ve collected d’Artagnan and patched you both up.”

Athos nodded his agreement with a small smile of gratitude and allowed Porthos to help him to his feet.

* * * *

Standing before the mirror, Athos met the gaze of his own reflection in the glass and was gratified to note that it did not look as haunted as it so often did. Significantly more composed now he was back in his own apartment, dressed in the uniform of a King’s Musketeer, and fortified by the wine from the bottle that sat uncorked on the table, he felt like he had returned to himself.

Returned home.

The fingers of his left hand rose to his right shoulder, brushing over worn and scarred leather to trace the lines of the fleur-de-lis debossed on its surface; the symbol of everything he now is, everything he wants – _needs_ – to be.

A knock at the door drew him from his contemplative reverie and, knowing who his visitors would be, he called out to bid them enter. His first question as Aramis and Porthos stepped inside was an enquiry after the health of their friend.

“How is d’Artagnan?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Porthos said, dismissing Athos’s concern with a jovial flippancy that suggested the injured man was indeed well.

Athos raised a curious eyebrow, divining there was more behind d’Artagnan’s speedy recovery than the relatively moderate damage he had received from the sword.

There was a conspiratorial smile playing on Aramis’s lips. “As we were leaving, he was just about to receive another visitor,” he elaborated.

The second eyebrow joined the first, but Athos could guess the identity of that visitor, and her presence was likely to be even more welcome than that of d’Artagnan’s fellow Musketeers. It was a turn of events that left Athos somewhat worried for his young friend’s continued well-being, but one that would undoubtedly cheer the boy.

Reading his thoughts, Aramis gave him a knowing grimace. “Quite.” If anyone was acquainted with the perils associated with lust and desire, it was Aramis. Deciding it best not to venture further along those lines, he promptly redirected the course of their conversation. “And how are _you_?”

“I’ll live.” The statement was delivered in his usual deadpan manner, but with the hint of a wry twist of his lips as he picked up his bottle of wine and drank deeply of its contents.

“I see you have decided not to continue with your abstinence.” There was no judgment in Aramis’s voice, merely the attentive interest of a friend.

“Every man needs a vice,” Athos reasoned. “It’s what makes him human. The trick is to keep it within the bounds of moderation.”

“And can you?”

“I know I can rely on you to tell me if I do not.”

“You are not yet convinced that you can place your trust in yourself?”

“Perhaps,” Athos conceded, inclining his head in a nod of tentative confirmation. “Still, I would prefer to continue in my usual duties from now on.”

That was a resolution that neither Aramis nor Porthos would argue against.

After a moment’s silence, Porthos gestured at Athos’s uniform. “What happened to your fancy clothes?”

“Ruined, I’m afraid.” The garments had been torn and muddied, very likely to a state beyond the repair of even the most accomplished seamstress.

Athos did not sound disappointed at their ruination, and neither did Porthos mourn their loss. He hitched a shoulder in a dismissive shrug; he had, as a consequence of his underprivileged upbringing, come to recognize the worth of such fine goods, but even he would rather see Athos in the uniform that represented everything he now was. Stepping in front of Athos, he reached out to brush his fingers over the pauldron affixed to Athos’s shoulder, the path of his touch echoing that Athos’s own fingers had taken before their arrival.

The gesture, coupled with the earnest emotion in his friend’s eyes, brought a smile to Athos’s lips.

“Prefer this anyway,” Porthos asserted gruffly, and met Athos’s gaze with unwavering conviction.

“As do I, my friend.”

**Author's Note:**

> This began life as four separate ideas that I merged together into one (hopefully at least semi-coherent) story. It was supposed to be a case fic, but the angst took over!
> 
> I apologise for the liberties I've taken in my portrayal of alcohol withdrawal in order to keep the plot moving.


End file.
